


The Biscuit Box

by orchid314



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2018 [5]
Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, Prompt Fic, Robbery, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 00:03:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15206417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchid314/pseuds/orchid314
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson agree to investigate the theft of the Royal Gold Cup.





	The Biscuit Box

**Author's Note:**

> Written for July Writing Prompts. Prompt 4: Contradict Yourself. Contronyms are words that are their own antonyms. Choose one from [here](https://www.dailywritingtips.com/75-contronyms-words-with-contradictory-meanings/) and use both its meanings in your work.
> 
>  **Note** : This work contains spoilers for the Raffles stories [ "A Jubilee Present](http://www.rafflesredux.com/a-jubilee-present/)" and ["Gentlemen and Players](http://www.rafflesredux.com/gentlemen-and-players/)."

"I thought I recognised that knock," Holmes said, as he looked down into Baker Street.

"Who is it, then?"

"Hmm. One Mycroft Holmes."

Watson paused. Mycroft Holmes putting in an appearance at Baker Street? Something extraordinary must have occurred. They heard the front door open, Mycroft's voice in the hall, Mrs Hudson's in response. Holmes turned from the window, his expression perfectly bland, as his brother entered the sitting room. 

Although, from what Watson had gathered, Mycroft Holmes was one of the most retiring persons in London, he nevertheless moved with the self-possession of a man accustomed to having his commands obeyed. His bulk communicated a certain imposing quality. And his eyes swept the room like those of an implacable tortoise that had projected its head from inside its carapace long enough to see if mankind still indulged in its curious activities. 

"Mycroft," Holmes nodded.

"Mr Holmes, how do you do?" Watson added, rising in greeting and offering his hand. 

"I suppose you'll want tea. Mrs Hudson?" Holmes glanced at the landlady who hovered at the door, bidding her to prepare it for their visitor.

"How do you do, Doctor? Sherlock?" Mycroft Holmes inspected the settee before taking a seat on it. "May I?"

"What can we do for you, my dear brother?" Holmes asked.

"Please sit down. I won't detain you for long. Could I trouble you to shut the door?" Watson did so.

"My apologies. I don't mean to be deliberately enigmatic, but it's a matter of some delicacy."

"My dear Mycroft, being enigmatic is a speciality of yours."

A distinctly unamused look was cast towards Holmes's armchair. "I come, although you might not believe it, on the errand of the Queen herself. I suppose you have heard of the affair of the Royal Gold Cup?"

"As who hasn't? The papers have written of little else except the Jubilee," Holmes replied.

"The way the thing wasn't bolted down, it's no surprise that the thieves managed to bolt with it," Watson chuckled. "And you do have to admit that it's rather humorous. Stealing a priceless object from the British Museum. Then sending it to the Queen wrapped in a Huntley and Palmers biscuit tin, of all things." He looked up to find two sets of grey eyes directed at him–one pair stern, the other admonishing–then gave an awkward cough and fell silent.

"We suspect it may be the work of AJ Raffles. I presume you have heard of him?"

"The cricket player and so-called 'amateur cracksman'?" Holmes asked. "Yes, I do seem to recall his name. Although I'm not as familiar with his exploits as I might otherwise be due to the fact that they happened while I was–away."

"The greatest slow bowler of his generation. But wasn't he supposed to have drowned or flung himself into the sea off the coast of Italy a few years ago?" inquired Watson, hurrying over Holmes's pause.

"Yes, but this burglary bears all the marks of Raffles's modus operandi. The conspicuous target, the brazen manner in which the object was stolen, and–as you so helpfully pointed out, Dr Watson–the insolence with which it was sent afterwards to the Queen. All this leads to at least the suspicion that it may be he."

"And so what would you like us to do about it?" Holmes asked his brother while glancing at Watson, the makings of a smile forming on his lips. 

"Do? Why, my dear boy, use your powers to discover if this Raffles fellow is back in town, or whether we're dealing with an inspired imitator. Scotland Yard have been tripping over themselves to apprehend the perpetrator, but with an embarrassing lack of success. So the Queen's advisers resorted to the measure of asking me if I could enlist your services. I would have suggested that you begin by interrogating Raffles's erstwhile co-conspirator, Harry Manders, but he's dropped out of sight since his release from prison."

Watson saw the gleam in Holmes's eye that meant he would almost surely accept the case, even if it did come at the request of Mycroft Holmes.

"Yes," Holmes mused. "Yes, I begin to think this has the makings of an interesting problem...Tell the Queen that I shall be honoured to provide her with any assistance she might deem necessary."

"There's just one caveat, though," Mycroft Holmes said. "Since this case has received, and continues to receive, such an inordinate amount of attention from the public and the Press, you must operate strictly within the bounds of established procedure, observing every punctilio." He hesitated. "I'm afraid that you'll have to work with MacKenzie of Scotland Yard–"

Holmes made a noise of impatience. "Really, Mycroft? You should have said as much at the start. I'm to be led around on a string by that fellow? Who is worse even than Lestrade at assembling his theories? I don't know. No, I'm not sure at all."

"Why your objection, Holmes?" Watson asked. "You don't have the prospect of any other cases on the horizon. And I'll help cover for you with the man. I am a fellow Scot, after all."

Holmes cocked his head, eying Watson. "Share memories of the homeland with him while I whisk myself away to pursue a promising clue? Wax nostalgic about 'Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon'? Fight the Rebellion of '45 over again?" Holmes looked back and forth between his brother and his friend, measuring them. "Well. I'm powerless when the two of you join in league with each other. I suppose I'll accept the case for now."

"Very good. And thank you for your sensible approach to the matter, Dr Watson." Mycroft Holmes appeared finished with the conversation, as if he were ready to retreat back into his tortoise shell now that his objective had been achieved. "I shall ask Inspector MacKenzie to pay you a call, then. He will exercise all due discretion himself, as Scotland Yard are most anxious to be seen as solving the case without external assistance. As his Her Majesty." And with that, the elder Mr Holmes departed, bidding good-day to the occupants of Baker Street.

"Well?" asked Watson, after the door downstairs had closed. "This sounds like it'll be rather good fun."

"Pshaw," replied Holmes. "A little light diversion is all." But he had already pulled out his box of files labelled "R" and was flicking his way through the documents stored there.

\-- 

"Let's go over this again, shall we, Inspector?" Holmes said.

"As I already told you. They delivered a vicious blow to the constable, knocking him unsconscious, and made off with the cup."

"Did anyone see them as they went? Is it known what exit they took from the premises?"

MacKenzie wore a sour expression. He was a man of sharp temperament, prone to sudden flares of anger. "They asked for the way to the Prehistoric Saloon, but that's the last that was seen of them. They must have blended into the crowd afterwards and from there taken a cab."

"The Royal Gold Cup is a rather striking object," Watson pointed out. "You're saying that no one noticed either of the two men, one of whom would have had to carry it under his arm? After all, it wasn't wintertime, with visitors walking around in overcoats."

MacKenzie relented in his stubbornness when he replied to Watson. The Doctor had taken the preemptive measure of inviting MacKenzie to his club a few days before, where they had sampled its extensive selection of whiskies and finally emerged down its steps arm in arm, singing "Loch Lomond" together. "He even invited me to a Burns Supper at his home next year, Holmes." "Very noble of you, Watson. I thank you for your sacrifice," Holmes had said, with irony in his voice but admiration in his eyes.

"Well, you see, Doctor Watson," Inspector Mackenzie conceded now. "We have a few theories, but we simply can't be sure how they got it out and we don't want to jump to erroneous conclusions."

"Hats," Holmes pronounced. 

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your cup could have been hidden away within either of the gentlemen's hats. Look up its dimensions, if you doubt it."

"Ah! Well. Yes, I suppose that would be one way of doing it. Raffles and that Manders fellow are very clever, there's no denying it. They do fancy themselves a high-wire act, always three steps ahead of the police. But I tell you, there will come the day when I shall personally ensure that they're put away for life. None of this commuted sentence business."

"Inspector MacKenzie, tell me about the post office from which the parcel was sent to Buckingham Palace."

"St. Martins-le-Grand. And he sent it registered post, too, the impudent puppy."

"Does the postmaster there recall anything about the sender?"

"Nothing at all. I tell you, Mr Holmes, these are seasoned criminals we're dealing with. I'm convinced that it was Raffles who stole Lady Melrose's diamond and sapphire necklace back in '91. Almost lost my life in that little adventure. Took a stab to the gut that well nigh finished me off."

"And what of Harry 'Bunny' Manders? Have you any sense of where he went after his release from Wormwood Scrubs?"

Inspector MacKenzie pursed his lips. "There's an uncle that we questioned. But he's washed his hands of his nephew and hasn't seen him since May."

"Well, Inspector, we shall see what can be done with the evidence we have before us. You'll wire me if anything comes to light."

"Thank you, Inspector," Watson added. "I hope to see you again soon."

MacKenzie was all gloom. "It's a sair fecht and no doubt about it."

\--

Some days later, Holmes and Watson sat over ham and eggs at the breakfast table, reading through the morning papers, which featured a seemingly unending flow of articles describing the events that had marked the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. 

Holmes looked up from his _Times_. "Come in, Lucy. What is this you bring us?" 

"It came with the eight o'clock post, sir." She presented a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, addressed to Mister Sherlock Holmes.

"Thank you," Holmes said, absorbed in opening the package.

Watson looked from behind his _Financial News_. "What's this?"

The string and paper fell away to reveal a biscuit box with the words "Huntley & Palmers" printed on it. 

Holmes glanced at Watson. "Well, are you going to see what's inside?" Holmes opened the lid and found lying tucked in cotton wool a packet of Sullivans cigarettes, accompanied by a note written in a dashed-off hand.

_Dear Mister Holmes,_

_With your great zeal for detection and your unerring ability to solve the most baffling misdeeds, you inspire the members of the English criminal classes, this one included, to attempt ever greater feats of daring and audacity, whether by spiriting away in broad daylight valuable articles belonging to the Nation or by committing the humbler larceny of lifting a financier's diamond cufflinks._

_I am heartened to learn that you have agreed to apply your considerable skills to apprehending me, thereby ensuring the future safety of plate, parures, and other precious objects throughout the land. Until we meet, please accept this small token of my regard and, if you should light one of these cigarettes of a summer evening, I beg you will think of me, raising a glass of Steinberg 1868 to you in esteem._

_Feloniously yours,  
A.J. Raffles_

"Do you mean to say–?" Watson exclaimed, leaning over Holmes's shoulder to read the note.

"The same kind of biscuit tin in which he sent the Royal Gold Cup to the Queen,” Holmes purred. A deep laugh began to roll forth from him, the kind he rarely indulged in but that was joyous to hear.

"Dammit, but the man's nerve is something to behold!" And Watson joined in with Holmes's contagious laughter, the sounds of it filling the room.

After they had recovered, Watson remarked, "Well, you know, Holmes, we might as well try the cigarettes."

"Yes, I included the Sullivans in my monograph on tobacco ash, but have never smoked one before."

Watson lit two cigarettes, handing one to his friend, and they smoked in silence for a while in the still summer morning.

"This may try all your powers, Holmes."

"Yes," said Holmes, luxuriating in the prospect like a cat.

"We may have the very devil of a time locating this Raffles fellow."

"Hmm, that's true," Holmes's eyes sparkled.

"We may even be forced to admit defeat if no more leads come in soon."

"Ah, no, that's where I'll dispute you, my dear Watson. The game has only just begun!"

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued...


End file.
